Chapter 12:Things Better Left Unsaid
Garrotway Hall, Western Idris, Early August 1536
Uncharacteristically, Clary woke late in the morning. Or rather, early in the afternoon. She lay awake wearily dazed for a few moments, staring up at the Angel emblem above her that now adorned most of her possessions.
They were the royal arms of Idris and had been for hundreds of years. If it had belonged to anyone else's family Clary felt she might have laughed. Who in their right mind would even dream of aligning themselves with heaven in their badge? Surely only a lunatic king would have decided to claim to be half angel.
Yet it would seem Jonathan I had done just that, becoming the first king of the territory now known as Idris some seven hundred years ago. Apparently, no one had laughed. After some centuries, several plagues, and one civil war, it was Clarissa Morgenstern who found herself dining and sleeping under the Angel Raziel and his divine instruments.
The ruling monarchs were still responsible for the cup and sword. These two gilded implements were presented to each new sovereign upon their coronation. Thereafter, they were stored in the most secure centre of the Gard. Clary had never laid eyes upon them. She read they had a guard to rival her father's and were treated as the holiest of relics.
The Morgenstern family themselves had their own distinct coat of arms: a plummeting star with its trail of costly silver thread emblazoned on a black background. That too was everywhere in Alicante's palaces, painted over doorways and engraved in fireplaces.
Out in the counties, in the older palaces and manors of other esteemed noble families, the falling star became a rarer sight.
But Clary wasn't supposed to dwell on that, or even make such observations.
She knew her forefather had taken the throne position by force, but only because the previous kings had grown lazy and too complacent to be effective rulers. The Morgensterns had done their country a great service by taking the heavy burden of kingship. A burden assumed not for selfish ambition, but unwillingly. As a duty, because it had been the will of God.
That had not always gone unchallenged. Jace's father had plotted to supplant Valentine as King, just twenty years ago. The plot had been foiled by servants loyal to the Crown in the Duke's house, his own wife had even testified against him when the charges were brought to trial. Probably in a misplaced attempt to retain some of her husband's estates for the child she carried- Jace.
Clary twisted the edges of her coverlet in her hands, feeling the brocade trimming dig into her fingers. Then she recognised what had woken her, the distinct drumming of water methodically striking wood.
Releasing her blankets, Clary slowly pushed herself upright and turned her head to the side. Sure enough, it was raining. And heavily, for little streams of water were pouring down the chequered glass and thudding in great droplets to the floor. One of the maids must have left the window open the night before. The unexpected downpour had now begun to ruin the trimmed edges of her carpet, Clary observed. The once bright scarlet had turned into a much darker, morbid red. Clary pushed the covers off her legs and rose, padding over to the window. After battling with the latch for a moment she drew it shut. She as the wet material squelched under her bare toes, glad to back away to drier ground.
"Your Highness!"
Clary started slightly at the sudden voice behind her, whirling to face Maia. Her newest lady of her household- gifted a place under a glowing recommendation from Luke- lingered in the doorway. Maia gripped her fingers tightly over her stomacher. "
"The King has sent for you, Madam. He wishes to see you on a matter of urgency."
Clary rubbed her hands against her arms desperately, trying to return some warmth into the limbs Maia's words had chilled. The uneasiness Clary had woken with intensified, and her empty stomach gave another ache.
Maia helped her dress quickly and escorted to Clary father's private rooms half an hour later. Clary realised, as they hurried to Valentine, she'd been laced back into the pink gown she stood for her courtship portrait in.
Her heart plummeted further upon arrival in His Majesty's outer chamber, finding a grey-faced Jace. He was standing off to one side in the practically deserted room, running the backs of his fingers along the underside of his jawline and slowly shaking his head back and forth. Alec stood beside him, leaning on his shoulder and saying something rapidly in his low, intense voice. Jace just kept shaking his head.
At the sound of her footfalls, his eyes rose to hers briefly. He held her stare for all of a heartbeat before his dropped again. Clary's heart subsequently began to beat even faster. He looked…devastated. There was no other word for that flat, grave expression.
By the time she had passed through the doors and into her father's presence properly, Clary was almost faint with fear. One glance at her father's stern face only seemed to confirm her horror. She could bear exile, she was not sure she enjoyed life at court anyway, and the shame she supposed she could learn to live with- but Jace? If he was harmed, or worse, as a result of what she had done with him…
Clary highly doubted that her father would care that she was the instigator and that it was at her insistence things had gone on as long as they had.
"Clarissa," His voice resounded with what must have constituted softness for Valentine, catching her off guard. "Take a seat, daughter."
Tentatively, Clary lowered herself into a chair. Valentine sat opposite her. Then, to Clary's greater astonishment, he reached out and took her hands in his. His fingers were cool in hers but the band of the ring on his index finger was curiously warm as it brushed her palm. Clary had noticed before that it was a nervous habit both Morgenstern men shared, pulling the family ring on and off their fingers subconsciously.
"I am afraid I have some sad news."
Clary waited, heartrate gradually slowing as Valentine kept watching her with the edge of pity in his black eyes, "I have just received word from France regarding the young Dauphin. I am sorry to tell you that he has perished at Chateau du Toumon."
"Perished?" Clary repeated incredulously, hearing and understanding his words, but not properly absorbing them. "Francois is dead? But how? I was told he was in perfect health!"
Valentine paused, "That is why I have called you here to tell you in person. Clarissa, your betrothed was murdered."
"Murdered?" The rushing fear and shock had left Clary dizzy.
"By some agent of the Spanish Emperor, I am told. The guilty party has been arrested, so you need not fear for your safety. But I did not want you hearing this from someone else, who may not give you the whole truth and needlessly distress you."
Clary wondered when her emotional well-being had become such a concern of Valentine's, though she supposed her falling to hysterics would not help her marriage prospects.
Her marriage prospects.
If Francois Valois was dead, Clary would not be marrying him.
The game was on again.
The seed of a potentially disastrous idea began to plant itself in Clary's mind. Dared she really make the first move in this new round?
Valentine was still speaking, "We have no reason to fear a similar attempt on your life. France is at war with Spain, not Idris, and the match was never publicly announced. So, beyond my privy council, the diplomatic party and whoever in your own household you told, no one will associate you with Francois Valois. Nevertheless, as a precaution, I will be increasing security around you. A second food tester has been hired. I encourage you not to worry." He paused again, but before she could steel her nerve to speak, her father tore on. "Again, I express my sympathies. I am aware that of all the matches you favoured the French. I urge you to remain positive. It seems this particular marriage is not in God's plan for you. But God does have a plan for you, Clary. A great destiny awaits, I am sure of it."
"Sire?"
Valentine looked to Clary with sharpened interest. He must have been able to read the feverish impulse on her face and seemed to eagerly await what may follow. "Speak freely, Clarissa." He said, waving away the single man-at-arms standing by the doorway. The guard obediently backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Clary sat very still, heart thundering, suddenly conscious of the few inches between her face and her father's, and the loud ticking of a clock somewhere in the room.
She had not been alone with Valentine since the day he had shown her the portraits of her suitors; she remembered looking for Jace in Francois, and he was on her mind in much the same way now. Valentine kept staring at her with that same undiluted attention and she suspected he was looking for someone else in her too; for the wife that detested and feared him from so far away. Perversely, that encouraged her. Luke had intimated that Valentine was still in love with her mother. Perhaps that might work to Clary's advantage too. Now that she had Valentine's sympathy, there was some chance her request may be granted.
"I am grateful for your attentions my lord, and as ever your kindness warms my heart." Clary began carefully, but once the words began the rest flooded out of her in a wild torrent, "When you selected the Dauphin to be my husband, I agreed to be obedient. I would have obeyed you and married him. I do wish to be a child you can be proud of, but," She swallowed past the rising desperation in her faltering voice, "I beseech you to recall that then I would have unquestioningly wed the husband of your choice, but since all has changed- I wondered if my husband could now be a choice of mine. If I could choose."
The screaming silence returned. Valentine pulled his hand away from hers and leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her. Clary resisted the urge to squirm, burying the fingers still wracked with tremors into her velvet lap instead. She battled to keep her breathing even.
Then the tension broke.
Valentine threw back his head and laughed. "You would choose your own husband?" He demanded when his amusement faded. "You would have me sit back and allow you free rein on the matter? You would have me wage the fortune of a kingdom, the hopes of a dynasty on what- the wishes of a girl barely seventeen? What would determine your choice, hmm? Riches? Good looks? Love?"
His mockery pierced her. Clary snapped back a retort, "Why should my choice be unreasonable? Have I not eyes and a working mind of my own? Could I not measure a man just as well as you, since I possess the necessary scales?"
"The necessary scales!" Valentine barked in return and for the first time Clary saw his perfect self-control shatter. In a rare burst of temper he leaned forward again, snatching her again by the wrist. This time there was no pretence of gentleness. "You have no idea what is at stake here, you foolish girl! The trifles of a woman have no place in such matters, none at all!"
"Is that what you told my mother when you refused a string of princesses to marry her? What governed your choice, if not love?"
It seemed that the comment may well push Valentine to strike her. For an awful moment, Clary could have sworn the notion crossed his mind. He clasped the soft skin at her wrist with increased vigour instead. Her father's facial muscles tightened, and Clary watched him draw back his temper with some effort, "Clearly you are half-deranged with grief. Mayhap you were fonder of the Dauphin than I realised, though I doubt it, even in spite of all your prying in the matter with Graymark when you thought my back was turned."
Clary suddenly felt like a six year old again, dredging up memories she had worked hard to forget. Crouching under a table, clutching a doll to her chest and trying to hum to herself over the tremendous argument her parents were having in the next room. The dread of recognising her mother had forgotten she was here. Could feel all over again swamping anxiety as her father burst through those doors, catching sight of her hunkered position with the same storm whirling across his face then as she witnessed now.
Without warning, Valentine realised her arm. Clary felt the feeling surge back into her hand with painful relief.
"Get out," he growled an abrupt dismissal. "And if you ever presume to speak to me in that way again, you shall find yourself wishing I had left you to rot in that convent with your mother after all."
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Western lands/ road to Alicante, late August 1536
Deep in thought, Jace crumbled the piece of bread between his fingers without having enjoyed a bite. He had sipped on the ale which had been its companion too, and nibbled some of the dried pork which also occupied the plate. It all tasted dreadfully dry. Eventually, he had to concede he had no appetite. Jace resorted to tearing off strips of the small loaf to try and delude Alec that he was eating, grinding it between his agitated fingertips until it both looked and tasted like grit. The debris fell in little snowy hills on his plate.
Alec ceased frowning at whatever paper was to hand- starting to squint in the fading daylight- and started frowning at Jace instead. "One could simply send it back to the kitchen, rather than destroy it. You were never one for silent moping, Jace. I can tell you are desperate for an opportunity to vent. Speak, damn you."
Jace responded with a scowl, "Desperate, am I?"
"And not the only one," Alec muttered in reply, letting his papers forlornly flutter back to the table. He rubbed his eyes, under which there had appeared darkening circles these past few days. "It is disheartening, to put it mildly, for all these efforts of ours to amount to nothing. Nothing other than our sister having caught the eye of the Prince as a potential whore, it would seem."
Jace might well have flinched at the coldness of that assessment. But he felt a snide half-smile unwrap itself nonetheless, "Perhaps Jonathan has his father's penchant for common women and intends to have dear Isabelle crowned."
Alec's nose twitched at the suggestion, and the corners of his own mouth sloped glumly downwards "Now you sound like my mother." Then, after a pause he deflated even further, concluding bitterly, "We have been wasting the past five months of our lives, and they say that time is money. Money lost, in this case."
The exasperation which coloured his friend's tone was more disheartening than anything, and Jace told him so, the beginnings of resentment beginning to lash in his own gut, "Since when has the pay mattered so, Alec?" Alec shot him a furtive glance, but Jace was too annoyed to notice it, "With a young man in his grave, you are chiefly concerned with the expenses of our sojourn here?"
Alec glowered, Jace tore on.
"And not just any man! Francois was our only hope for a decent King of France. Everyone knows this new Dauphin is another pleasure-monger like his father. Henry will be ruled in all that he does by his own pride, sly ambition and the desires of his wily mistress Madame du Poitiers! Francois was a good man who might have been a great king. He was certainly the only Valois I believed in."
Alec's annoyance hardened to foreboding. Fear began to leech into his next question. "What is it you are trying to say?"
Jace thrust his hands into his hair and lurched anxiously forward onto his elbows. "To put it plainly, I do not want to go back to that crowned womanizer, nor his ungrateful son and his viper of a daughter in law! Catherine is sure to be exulting in all this!"
Alec's eyes shot to the door, which remained closed.
"Neither you nor I have a choice." He insisted grimly. "There is no son of France for Valentine's daughter to wed anymore. We must go home and fling our hopes for advancement and fortune on pleasing the King of France. Our master." As though afraid there was a chance Jace may misunderstand him, Alec repeated firmly, "There will be no fleur de lis in Clarissa Morgenstern's trousseau."
"But that is the very heart of the matter," Jace raised his head to look Alec in the eye, all frustration gone. "France is not my home."
Alec's face turned Ashen, "You cannot mean that."
"I do, for little else has been on my mind since it happened. Damn me all you wish, but I am that selfish. I have no wish to serve France any longer, not with the prospect of a monarch I could respect gone. I do consider appealing to Valentine. He might agree to keep me as a permanent ambassador and his continuing link with the court of France. At best, I pray I have the courage to request he consider my application to repossess at least some of the lands which belonged to my father. Considering that I have served his family and his daughter."
"That is the heart of the matter," Alec interrupted, voice even lower than Jace's, blue eyes blank and dour, the only note of emotion being the continued twitch to his nose, "his daughter."
"Alec-"
"No! I will hear no more of it, no more of this nonsense. You cannot stay with her Jace, you know that. You dare not entertain for a mere second any thoughts that suggest otherwise. She may not be marrying the Dauphin, but her father has grand designs on her and her legacy, that much he has told me, in those very words. I can see it is likely too late for me to tell you that you cannot love her, but surely even at that you can see your-" he snorted bitterly- "love is doomed. She is going to marry a prince, not an ambassador- not even an Idrisian born ambassador. And I am sorry, Jace, that the truth of this must hurt. But I have told you nothing you do not already know! You know where you stand at this court and in this world. It is far, far below her."
Jace shot to his feet, ears ringing as though his friend had boxed them with his fists rather than facts. The stool beneath him was knocked backwards, greeting the rough wood of their chamber floor with a scraping bang. "If you knew a damn thing about-"
Alec too got up hastily, a fresh thought of panic pouring from him: "Tell me you have not sullied her."
Jace broke off on his retort, "What?"
"Tell me you did not bed her Jace, for the love of God."
Colour sprang to the accused's cheeks, "No," he snapped aggressively, "I am not an utter fool."
Alec exhaled sharply, "Good. Then you must admit that you do recognise this is where you brief dalliance with the lady ends. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, it never happened at all."
Alec was right, as always. Jace loved the logic and level-headedness Alec applied to everything, but in this moment, he hated it. He could even hate Alec.
"God, it must be such a delight to you, to possess the shining, clean slate that is your own reputation. You really are the paragon of the dutiful son and the humble servant."
A cloud passed over Alec's blue eyes. Where anger made Jace burn, Alec froze. "You would not understand what it is to value what I value or to want what I want. Because you are still a petulant child who blames everybody else when aught goes wrong. Worse, you cannot, or will not, see the dangerous consequences of your actions. You are an immature fool who refuses to see where the troubadour's song ends and where real life starts. You think there is something heroic in loving her, do you not? Are you so blind that you think Clary would thank you for getting yourself killed for her?!"
In that moment, for the first time in all the years he had known him, Jace wanted to strike Alec Lightwood. The sole torrent of rage ebbed away just as fast as it came. All Jace wanted to be out of this room, and away from Alec and his words; which would not stop making sense.
"At least I know what it is to deeply want something. All you ever do is what you are told. You want only what you are expected to want; an heiress, your castle, the ear of the King. I doubt there has been a moment where you put your heart in anything."
The way Alec flinched at the accusation made Jace wonder if it would have been less painful had he swung for him.
It was Alec who strode for the door. His furious exodus had him snarling a parting curse at Jace and almost colliding with the serving girl sent to reclaim the plates of the supper.
As the slammed door rattled in Alec's wake, Jace wished he could not see the damage of his actions.
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Exhaling as subtly as possible, Luke Graymark dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead with his kerchief and tried to keep his expression interested. He had been attending them for almost twenty years, yet these damn council meetings never got any more bearable. Especially not when one was roused at the first trace of summer dawn and hauled to the chamber for yet another emergency meeting.
However, it would not do to be seen fidgeting like a crabby child trying to delay bath time. Luke had a purpose here, he reminded himself, as another trickle of sweat dribbled down the back of his neck.
At least with sessions within the Clave there were high vaulted ceilings, plenty of windows and dozens of clamouring voices from the county representatives trying to be heard. Though Luke doubted even the Clave's buildings would be tolerable in this heat. The worst of the heatwave had broken, but it was still desperately clammy. The surrounding skies were filled with the growling of thunder.
Though he had spent longer living and serving in Alicante, Luke would never consider himself aught but a country lord, through and through. He likely would have been happier to run his father's estates in relative obscurity, coming to the city only thrice or so a year to petition the court or plead his people's case in the Clave sessions. But during the days of his youth, when the sun had rose and set on Valentine Morgenstern, Luke had been so eager to please that he'd developed an aptitude for dealing with the political intricacies of the King's Privy Council. He'd been rewarded with a seat on it, which had tied him to Valentine and the court as surely as a ball and chain.
"I sent word to the Prince at Edom as you had asked, Sire, though I only received a response yesterday," Starkweather reported in his customary clipped, dispassionate tone. "The enquiries I made amongst his household could only reveal that His Highness had been off with no one besides Sebastian Verlac in his company until a week hence. He spoke little of where he had been but did assure my man that he would return to Alicante and wait for us there." Starkweather's cheek twitched slightly as he proceeded to do his best to shield himself from his own ignorance, "I am sure here is no cause for concern, my lord. The Prince is young." He tried for a spark of humour, "Long ago as it may seem to younger eyes, we were all of us two and twenty once." The surrounding table of the greatest peers in the realm chuckled obediently spurring Starkweather on with an ounce of confidence. "I daresay we are better off not knowing what Prince Jonathan and his friend are doing."
Valentine did not look convinced, leaning back and running his thumb over the carved armrest of his chair at the head of the table. "Better off not knowing?" He echoed, and at the sinisterly quiet, meditative tone whatever dregs of nervous laughter still lingered instantly melted.
"How could allowing my son to disappear into thin air not be cause for alarm Starkweather?" In the subsequent strained silence, Valentine's head snapped to the side to eye Pangborn, "This demonstrates the alarming inadequacy of the spy network which you run for me." Pangborn gaped uselessly, swallowing air frantically as he failed to form words. Starkweather stared down at the table and tried not to move, hoping stillness would make the King forget about him.
Pangborn recollected the ability to speak, and foolishly used it to protest; "Majesty, no one knew that the Prince was planning to leave his estate at Edom."
Luke hissed under his breath as Valentine's ire exploded.
"We pay you good money and plenty of it to make sure that someone knows!" The King roared. "If you cannot even manage that, one of the few tasks I give you, then you are of no use to us whatsoever. You think that the crown cannot find a dozen more where you came from with ease? You spineless, snivelling idiot!"
That proud idiot should have known better than to challenge Valentine when the Council was already treading on hot coals. The rise of a new threat to Valentine's crown- the first coherent one in years- Valentine was like a cornered bear.
It was at moments like this that Luke considered whether an outsider would find the sight of these rich, powerful, fully grown men all cowering like frightened schoolchildren. But Valentine's anger was no laughing matter. He had ordered the deaths of many a once treasured friend. His own wife had fled from fear of him. He was a man who knew very few bounds when it came to getting what he wanted.
A white-faced Clary had admitted to Luke only days ago that she had displeased the King greatly. So Luke had crucial ground to recoup here, as far as Jocelyn was concerned. And though Clary had sealed her lips on the rift between herself and her father, Luke was learning his lesson from Pangborn's failures. He had put Maia in Clary's household for a reason. Maia's lips were not supposed to be sealed on anything. Luke was supposed to hear from her all that went on in Clary's apartments. household. He needed to remind her of such duties.
Valentine seethed, "If I relied entirely on you fools, I would prove a sorry monarch indeed. From now on eyes never leave my son, is that understood? Everyone he meets and everywhere he goes, Jonathan does so with our knowledge, or better still, at our command."
"Your concern is understandable, Your Majesty," the Earl of Chene began tentatively, "And such a careless lapse of attention will never occur again. However, with respect, I feel compelled to point out that the Prince is no child. He is in his majority. Legally, we cannot bind him so."
Reliably, at the stirrings of another fit of wrath, the Duke of Lyn leapt in to defend his friend. Jack and Jill, Jocelyn was wont to have called them when she was in a scornful mood, or perhaps Castor and Pollux were she in a finer one. "Indeed, he is- though I pray not for many years yet- our future king. Surely he should be given some liberty? Your Majesty is yourself emphatic that for the sake of his future rule Jonathan is not to be coddled. It does not seem right, nor perhaps especially wise then, to restrain him so."
Not especially wise, the poorly chosen words provided Luke with the chance be needed. Hastily steeling himself, he leapt into the discussion before Valentine would lose his sense of self-control altogether and sign all their death warrants.
"My lord of Lyn, surely you see that His Majesty's orders are beyond wisdom? At a time like this, even assured of the imminent crushing of these rebels as we are, to allow the Prince's whereabouts to become suspect is the worst kind of folly. Yes, at a time of peace we can afford to allow our heir to indulge in a bout of youthful foolhardiness. Once order in this land is restored, Prince Jonathan should be left free to conduct his affairs as any adult man might, practicing his skills of government at will. At this very moment, however, the matter of paramount importance is to ensure that the royal family are protected from this rabble until they are defeated." Now Luke allowed some acid top creep into his tone, "I was under the impression that we were gathered today to discuss how best to restore the King's peace in the counties."
Luke did not need to turn his head to feel the glimmering warmth of Valentine's approval. Once, in his naivety, Luke had thought he might use his position to make a difference. He'd hoped that if Jocelyn was not to his bride then at least as Valentine's, he could help her steer Idris into a golden age together. Now he knew better. He was no different than all the rest of these parrots in their robes of state. Perhaps just a more articulate one.
Despite himself, Luke had to admit he was rather pleased with his own little speech, delivered on short notice upon the tongue of man who doubted Valentine's sadist of a son had ever done a foolish thing in his life. Luke often wondered if Idris would not be better served if its Crown Prince had something firmer to restrain him than the gilded collar his father suppled.
Jocelyn feared that her boy had become a second Valentine, swearing that the son she should have had been destroyed by Valentine's determination to build his ideal heir. That Jonathan was now the Second Coming of his father.
Valentine dropped his chin forward until he propped it up on the top of his clasped fingers. "Indeed, my lord of Aconite." His dark eyes flickered around the table.
Luke knew that Valentine was far from blind to his son's penchant for cruelty. If Valentine suspected as Luke did, that Jonathan had played some part in the destruction of a French alliance... but why would he do so? Why stoop to such cold-blooded measures to end his sister's betrothal? It made so little sense that Luke had to contemplate Jonathan assisting in the Dauphin's murder simply because he could.
Valentine dropped his hands. "What news of- should I deign to call these ruffians rebels?" For a man who refused to even acknowledge the hordes of unhappy peasants currently marching throughout his lands toward his capital- to which the lords themselves were hurrying to return to and defend- he was certainly giving the impression that he was worried.
The ensuing report came from the flushed Marques of Edgehunt. Penhallow stated bluntly that the peasant forces in the south and east had now crossed his own lands, and with the mirroring force in the north, they were closing the net on the capital city.
Though he may feign contempt, Valentine was so short tempered and uneasy these days that Luke saw, for the first time in years, Valentine Morgenstern was afraid. He so revelled in his role as the grand puppeteer, who knew exactly what strings to pull on every man he surrounded himself with. Whenever events spiralled even slightly out of his control, Valentine struck out with anger and when that wore off, took a sharp turn to panic. To anyone who had not known the King for as long and as well as Luke, the two may be difficult to distinguish between.
What had Valentine perpetually in a bad temper these days, and saw his hand never stray more than a few inches from his blade, was the unprecedented repercussions of what he assumed would be a quick solve to a mild problem when he had allowed Oldcastle to burn.
It would appear that with their own residences smoking the citizens had simply travelled to the nearby villages with their discontent and there had found many a kindred spirit. This much Luke knew, because the peasantry appeared to have roused themselves and decided that with their pitchforks they would march upon Alicante (their rustic ignorance obvious in their failure to comprehend that the King was not yet at Alicante) and demand that henceforth the King's justice should be just.
Not altogether a ridiculous demand, though what should have been a ridiculous mouthpiece had proved much harder to quiet than the King had at first assumed. The ragtag force should have been scattered and sent back to their homesteads by the local authorities and county sheriffs. However, treatment of Oldcastle had been one outrage too may for much of the Idrisian lower classes.
The initial uncouth displays of indignation of burning property and maiming livestock had quickly and suspiciously evolved, emerging from Broceland as this military march with clear demands. Worse, contrary to expectations, some of the local landlords and knights had sided with the rebels. There were also rumours that some of the greater lords had not reacted with the proper horror and fury upon learning of the events, while the lowlier court members were not to know of the disturbances at all- out of fear that their sympathies with the rebel cause might be such that they chose to assist it. It had never occurred to Valentine that the women of the court, the first of whom was Clary, may need to be aware of the situation. Such things were not women's troubles, Valentine insisted.
Luke had toyed with the idea of telling Clary, then dismissed it. On one level, the upheaval in her personal life had her uneasy enough, and on another Luke felt he knew her well enough now to expect that armed with such knowledge Clary was not the sort to sit idly on it. Strained as things already were with her and Valentine, the wisest course was to leave her exactly as he desired. Ignorance was supposed to be bliss.
Still, the mob were now armed with better weapons, marching in a more sophisticated fashion. They had their cunning fox of a King bolting back to his den.
And why? Because someone had harnessed this agrarian agitation, some faceless threat that had Valentine fearing and suspecting everyone. That was bad enough, but in the more recent reports it had emerged that this threat was no longer nameless.
The mysterious link between the instigators of this anger and its supporters was becoming more obvious. A link which had persuaded them to raise banners and a war chant, like a real army might. And though they claimed to be first and foremost designed to make the King dismiss his "false and mistaken advisors" and not a rising against the Crown itself, it had surfaced the name being bandied about the lips of these would-be rebels was Herondale.
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As far as Isabelle was concerned, this was not the worst thing she had ever done. Surely it was upon the list of many things that would prevent admittance through Heaven's pearly gates, but it did not top that list.
Simon Lewis was, undeniably, an inordinately sweet boy.
Sweeter than should care to spend his days on the likes of Isabelle Lightwood, and surely much sweeter than should care to share his luncheon. Yet here they were late on Sunday afternoon, relaxing in the grounds of one of the King's many hunting lodges, where they had temporarily halted. Sipping some of the wine Isabelle had spirited from her brother's chambers and nibbling the bread and cheese Simon had pilfered from the pantry.
From the hilltop that they currently occupied it was possible to watch the various smoky splashes of clouds chase one another across the sky. They often screened the sun and seemed to be growing more frequent as the afternoon wore on. Perhaps the good Lord was playing the role of Isabelle's conscience, threatening to send rain to stop her using of the trusting boy before her any further.
Nearby the horses they had "borrowed" without necessarily seeking the correct permission cropped contentedly at the grass. Occasionally, they whickered their satisfaction. It was something of a relief to take a moment to breathe. Jace was still moping about as though the world were ending and Alec was panicking more than usual as to what would become of them all. Neither of them made for pleasant company as the court was harried from house to house on the road back to Alicante.
So, guilty as she might feel about spending time with Simon, his suggestion they come out here for some fresh air and peace had been too attractive an offer.
At first, courting Simon's attentions had merely been another ploy to get her father's attention. She had hoped, as had been accomplished by her unsuitable sweethearts in the past, word would reach her father and the incensed Earl would immediately remove her from the situation. She had hoped to use someone without an ample enough contingent of feelings to be wounded when they realised that she was using them- namely, Prince Jonathan. Unfortunately, his long absence from the court made such a scheme impossible to execute.
The naive young musician had provided the perfect tactical shift.
Now Isabelle found herself in an increasingly tense predicament. Now Isabelle's grand escape plan was no longer required, but she was still seeking out Simon and leaping at the chance to go on picnics with him. Although Isabelle was not prepared to admit as much, even to herself, she was beginning to like him.
By that she simply meant that his presence was tolerable and his countenance slightly pleasing. Nothing more.
Moreover, with Clary's friendship, Isabelle was beginning to find herself almost at home in Idris.
Robert had sworn to her that she would never be back at the French court while there was breath in his body. Although when the threat had been issued Isabelle had not believed him, Robert showed no signs of relenting. Isabelle had been forced to admit that perhaps this time she had gone too far. In recent years she had thrived off picking confrontation with her father; in dressing in a way that would annoy him, being a determined spendthrift and allowing herself to be seen with unacceptable boys.
It had driven Alec almost as insane as it had their father, and for that she had been sorry. But she was doing it for him too. And even for Jace, in a way. For as long as she remained the difficult child and Alec the reluctantly dutiful, Jace's talents (which were obvious at the best of times) were illuminated. While her parents were diverted trying to prevent her from destroying what remained of their reputation and persuade Alec to make any kind of public appearance, Jace proved a balm to their ambitions. Handsome, charming, charismatic and ambitious; Jace had proved exactly the kind of child they would have wished for.
Jace was unrelentingly hard on himself, nothing he could do was ever good enough for himself. That was Valentine's fault. But at least with the Lightwoods he'd had a taste of parental approval.
Though nobody would approve of Simon serenading Isabelle.
He strummed away while Izzy sipped her wine and allowed a small smile to cross her face. He really was not so bad to look at, and his focusing on the strings his fingers danced over left her free to watch him. He did have nice, clear skin. There were a few freckles on his nose which were oddly endearing, and his dark fringe was growing out fast. It constantly had to be brushed out of his eyes.
This could be what she needed, someone she could rely on at this court, especially since her brothers were soon to be gone. While Isabelle knew she could entrust most things to Clary, her station would render her more powerless than powerful in the future, whereas Simon would always be free to do as he pleased. So long as he could perform a ballad on request. There was a great deal of freedom in being nobody.
Isabelle's scrutiny of his features had not gone entirely unnoticed, for Simon lifted his chin and grinned slowly, "You are not listening."
Isabelle shrugged and tilted her head backwards, letting her eyes flutter shut and pretended to sun herself. Her facade of nonchalance was significantly undermined by the blanket of dreary cloud swathing the sky. "To a man? Never."
Simon chortled, Izzy cracked her eyes open somewhat to watch his setting the lute aside and stretching out on his side, propped up by an elbow. "How hurtful, as I laboured ceaselessly to compose that tune which conveys my very soul."
She looked at him over her shoulder. "Simon, I know you did not compose Greensleeves."
"Ah. There you have me." She rolled her eyes and snickered, but this time her amusement was not mirrored. "But in truth, you look as though you are deep in thought. You could speak to me, if you wished to."
A pause. "I would not know where to begin," Isabelle admitted.
"Nor would I, I suppose, were I asked."
Isabelle's eyed him again, with more avid interest. "What do you mean by that?"
This time when Simon smirked at her there a cynical edge to it, "You think yourself so enveloped in secrets, Isabelle Lightwood, that no one notices you have them. That is not true. I have always seen that there is something you are hiding."
For once, Isabelle didn't know what to say. Her chosen distraction was not supposed to involve even a semblance of a serious conversation.
Simon straightened slightly. "I am not going to press you," he said, in the kind of tone one might adopt in dealing with a spooked animal they did not want to bolt. "I am simply saying that I have some secrets of my own."
She swallowed another swig of wine, alarmed to find her dry throat ached, "I prefer your usual witless banter."
If Isabelle was not mistaken, he was disappointed. Well, what had Simon thought to expect? That she might bare herself to him at the first invite?
There were things she was not prepared to tell even Alec. Like how she knew fighting marriage was a doomed battle for a woman of her station in this world. That she was afraid of what might happen when her parents did not reconcile. That though it was her father's faithlessness that caused their split, Isabelle blamed herself for being the one to tell her mother of it. How it was really her fault her father had packed up the last of his things in Adamant and sped to Paris.
How could Isabelle begin to explain to anyone that she had watched Clary fall in love so easily and been both intrigued and alarmed? That she didn't believe anyone could love all of her, the spiteful and cynical heart of her, except those in her family who had no choice but to?
She was saved from having to dismiss Simon any further as the first drops of rain started to fall. He lunged to protect his lute, and by the time it was safely bundled up, the shower had turned to a downpour. Izzy had to laugh as they scrabbled about to collect their things and charged for the nearest trees.
Isabelle's laughter was stutteringly echoed by Simon. Her merriment only escalated as they stumbled and kept dropping the scraps of food and empty bottles that overflowed their arms. Cursing and giggling, she finally made it to the vague leafy shelter and turned to face Simon.
She must have looked a sight, clothes sodden and cap askew, but Simon's laughter paled away as he reached out to tenderly prise away a soaked strand of hair from her cheek.
His fingertips were a glancing warmth against her skin, and the sudden intensity of his stare sent Isabelle's breath skidding to the back of her throat.
"Isabelle-" he began solemnly, and her numbing panic was spurred to frantic action. She reached out, grabbing at his damp collar and hauling his hot lips to hers.
Silencing and distracting him the only way she knew how.
-0000000000000-
These days, Clary's things rarely left their cases. There were no more state dinners and no more revels. The past week had been one relentless haul toward her capital city, and much of what she possessed was still miles behind amongst the baggage train she had not spotted in several days.
Not that she required much. There were no more reasons to dress up. It had her exhausted, and no one would tell her why this haste was so necessary.
Clary had only glimpsed Valentine at mealtimes and prayer services, and they had not spoken intimately since The Incident.
Although since their last, disastrous private conversation, there had been no outward sign Valentine was still angry with her. He had greeted her calmly, if not coolly, since. Yet Clary still felt the tension crackling between the two of them as clearly as she saw the bright fissures of lightening split the sky these nights. She was in no doubt that while her father might be diverted at present, he had not forgiven her impudence.
It had been almost a week and still Clary's heart stuttered when he met her gaze and had to prevent herself from tensing when he walked past. Yes, on one hand it seemed that as Valentine's only daughter she was sole currency he had with which to purchase a foreign alliance. But she knew that unless he thought her an easy pawn to work through, he could decide the bother of marrying her off outweighed the potential gains. He may have her sent back to the convent for good.
Not long ago she might have leaped at the chance to scurry back to her mother. But she had seen too much, and endured too much, to be pushed aside to gather dust like that.
Even as shackled as she was to her father's schemes, at least there was a prospect of liberty in the end. Once married, she could have her own household in the very least. Even an uncertain future gave a kind of hope.
If only her present private situation was a little less uncertain than the public. But since the passing of her betrothed, Jace had given her no more than his condolences in a clipped, reserved tone. She did not fear that he had forgotten her, surely no more than she had forgotten him.
A suspicion that was soon proved to her. After some tentative questioning of Isabelle, Clary had learned that the situation was precisely what she feared. She was not the only one with her bags packed, although she did not share the same destination as the rest of the French embassy. Izzy had been quick to assure her that she intended to remain in her service, but since there were no more prospective husbands for her in France, Jace could not hope to do so.
His ambassadorial duties lay elsewhere.
But Clary had not expected him to part without a goodbye. Not until a suspiciously damp Isabelle had hurried into her chambers on Sunday afternoon baring the worst news possible, the drooping feather from her hat dripping balefully onto the floor as she hissed in her ear that Wayfarer was saddled in the courtyard.
"He cannot mean to leave today!"
"He likely does." Isabelle corrected grimly, making a show of sniffing a dab of new scent which she splashed on a kerchief and raised to her mouth, screening her lips and muffling her words so no one save Clary might hear them, "He has left in such haste before, Clary. Our- his master is at war. Since the new Dauphin is already married there is no deal to broker here, and King Francois will want every diplomat he has at hand while he continues to fight Spain. "
Clary shot her a panicked look, ignoring Maia's curious expression and her attempts to sidle closer to the other two girls. "He would not go without telling you."
"He has done before," Isabelle shrugged, "and if Alec was not leaving with him immediately, as he sometimes does not, then he would be content to let Alec say the goodbyes."
"To me?" Clary demanded, aware that the pitch of her voice was something of a whine, "He would not go without saying goodbye to me?"
Her lady shot her a look of unmistakable pity, "Mayhap it would be better that way Clary. Goodbye is always painful, and beyond that, Jace would struggle to find a suitable reason to see you now."
Clary was sick of this whole charade. She no longer cared what people thought of her being too friendly with an embassy, and she no longer cared that she was already on thin ice with her father. She needed to see Jace.
"Do you need some assistance, Your Highness?" Maia enquired, pushing her way into the space beside Isabelle's shoulder.
Clary barely spared her a glance, "No."
She rose from her seat and tossed her prayer book aside, the sudden rise disturbing her ladies. Aline and Helen glanced up in surprise from their sewing and one of her newer additions, Julie Beauvale, clumsily broke off her playing of a small harp. All questioning eyes were on Clary, and she waved away their silent inquisition with a vague sweep of her right arm. They had made to rise with her, but at her frantic gesture had to flop awkwardly back into their seats. Julie missed her stool entirely and her backside hit the floor.
"Just a moment," Clary gasped faintly to her audience, then charged gracelessly out the door.
Things grew more farcical, as her unprecedented exit startled the guards at her door. The only indication Clary had of their shock was the distinct clamour of metalwork as they seized up their pikes whirled round looking for an assailant. The closest thing to which proved to be Isabelle Lightwood, barrelling out the door after her.
Bareheaded and still trailing a small river of rainwater after her flicking train, not unlike a snail, Isabelle soon caught up to Clary on her longer legs. "Princess!" she panted through gritted teeth, "What the devil do you think that you are doing?"
Izzy tried to catch at Clary's flapping sleeve and halt her, but Clary disentangled herself and continued on her quest.
The Princess darted out into the stable yard, and splashed straight through a muddy puddle as she finally spied the dappled coat she had been looking for.
Jace was at Wayfarer's side, distinct in the set of his shoulders and the ease with which his hands flew over the various straps and buckles of tack.
It was more than her recent dash which had Clary's heart hammering as she crossed the final few paces to him.
"Jace."
He glanced up briefly from his inspection of the girth's tightness. He turned away again, only to whirl incredulously back to her when the realisation sunk in. "What in God's name are you doing?!"
"What in God's name are you doing?" Clary fired back, planting both her hands on Wayfarer's strong neck, as though the sheer force of her will could keep horse and rider where they were.
"You should not be here. People will talk, those grooms are already doing so."
"Let them."
"Izzy is but over there, Clary you must go back to her. Now." He tried to turn her away from the horse, steering her with the screen of his body as best he could. Despite how she might behave Clary was still the King's daughter, and he was not permitted to lay a hand on her, not unless invited to.
"No." Clary said more firmly, "Do not leave me. Do not make me put you aside."
Jace's eyes flickered around her face, as they had done before, but this time it was more than not meeting her eye. This time the scan gave the impression of his trying to memorise her every feature. To commit to memory the exact shape of her nose and every freckle on it.
"I doubt there is a man alive who could make you do anything. Better men than me have tried and failed." The dryness to his voice failed to move her any, for it still took every scrap of her self-control to keep her hands stroking Wayfarer.
"Please," she whispered instead, astonished that he heard her over the cacophony of the stable yard; the clatter of hooves, booming voices and rasping hiss of a brush somewhere sweeping up stray strands of hay. At least not all life had come to standstill at her presence. Clary knew there were still some of the grooms nudging one another and muttering unabashedly, but the lack of a total silence enabled her to continue speaking to Jace.
"I cannot stay here. Clary, I will not stay."
"Will not?" she echoed, not bothering to disguise the pain that remark had caused her. Jace threaded his fingers through the sagging reins and looked away from her. "Life goes on. I could stay, but I will not. There are too many ghosts here. And besides, even the present hurts. Surely you realise that for your father's plans this is naught but a stumbling block. Already behind closed doors they are whispering of a new suitor." Now he looked at her, earnestly and nakedly, as he dared not look at anyone else. "You deserve honesty. The honesty I could not give your betrothed- my lord- when he lay on his deathbed and I showered his bride with kisses." The raw guilt and the self-loathing was painful to hear. The harshness of his words struck home for the first time, and Clary was reminded that Francois Valois had not been a sombre oil painting for both of them. Betraying him may have meant nothing to her, in fact she had never regarded what she was doing with Jace to be a betrayal at all, but the same was not true for Jace.
"I shall try now to be honest enough for both of you. I cheated my friend and Prince. I will have to live with that. But staying here, watching you marry someone else? A stranger? That I could not live with. Yes, I could stay as your father's servant, I could call Idris home again, and I have thought of it- but the cost is too high. To see you again I would have to be the go-between between your father and husband, whoever he may be. I would have to see you on his arm, bearing his children. I do not want to live like that Clary. I will not."
Clary was practiced enough by now to hear what he would not say.
"It will not come to that," she lied.
He tried to shake her off again and wiped his face blank, or rather attempted to.
"I have a plan," She babbled desperately, "to wreck the next betrothal, to whomever it is. I want you Jace, though they say I cannot have you. That means nothing to me, nothing means anything; except that I love you. And I refuse to accept that is wrong."
"Love me?" For a heartbeat, Jace sounded wistful. Then he scoffed, moving to sidestep her and lead his horse away, "You hardly know me."
"Very well," Clary unintentionally recoiled at the sour tone, "I hardly know you and still refuse to let you go."
The corner of Jace's mouth curled slightly, though Clary expected he was silently damning her for making him smile as he tried to walk away. It was what she would have done. He successfully manoeuvred his way past her and crossed to Wayfarer's other flank. Instinctively Clary grasped at the bridle, aware that she would look utterly ridiculous if she hung on the horse's reins to fight the departure. Yet she considered it.
Following the sound of rustling, a moment later Jace returned with a package in his hand. "Clarissa Morgenstern, one day you are going to be the fairest, fiercest queen Christendom has ever known. Isabella of Castile and Eleanor of Aquitaine will pale in comparison." Clary coloured slightly at the words, taking the package he passed to her, "I have to go today, but I never intended to go without leaving you a goodbye. I was to send this to Isabelle to pass along after I had left. I feared that unless I could say farewell from a distance, I would never say it at all."
Clary latched on to the hope his determination was faltering, "Then do not. Stay with me. We will come up with something. Concoct some plan. Some agreement. We always have."
"Would that I could," Jace murmured, reaching out to touch one of the locks of hair that had curled out from under her hood in the humidity of the air. Then he straightened up and raised his voice, "Keep Isabelle with you and keep her out of trouble if you can, though I do not expect you to have much success. Keep yourself out of trouble more importantly, Princess. Do try not to get mobbed again."
A lump rose in Clary's throat and she half-laughed half-sobbed at his parting words. She had to surrender a step back to let Jace mount, her head tilted upwards as he tipped his hat to her.
"God keep you," She managed to call, voicing her most fervent prayer in days.
"And you," Jace responded softly, nodding over her head to Isabelle before clicking his tongue and urging Wayfarer into a trot.
Unable to bear the sight of him leaving her, Clary ducked her head and hastened back to Izzy, who slung an arm around her and greeted her with a gentle, "You trod in horse shit," as she steered her friend back indoors.
Neither of them saw the two men who exchanged a single glance and slipped out the gate after Jace.
-00000000000000-
The silver lining to having one's hem smeared in horse excrement and your stockings destroyed by rainwater puddles was that upon return to your apartments you could be hustled away to your private bedchamber to change.
Once there, Clary sat down forlornly on the edge of her bed. "You can leave me Isabelle."
"You need fresh clothes."
"I can dress myself. I did it for years."
Isabelle nodded slowly, realising Clary needed a rare moment alone to nurse her breaking heart. "I do not know what to say Clary. I fear my words would make paltry bandages at any rate, and I have no comforting wisdom of experience to share. Sometimes I doubt I have a heart that anyone could break. But... should you need company; I am just outside the door."
Clary gave a small nod and sat still, long after the soft snap of the closed door. Eventually she did wriggle out of her soiled vestments and, clad only in her shift, crawled back onto the bed and unwrapped the paper on her parting gift.
A new copy of Malory's Morte d'Arthur revealed itself, stamped with the hallmark of Idris's primary printer in Alicante. It must have been privately commissioned weeks ago. No, it was not the jewels or fine cloths that her father might have bought for her so flippantly at small fortune, but it was all the more precious to her in its simplicity. Flipping over the cover page Clary located a single line inscribed in familiar, spiked handwriting:
For Lancelot loved Guinevere and Arthur too.
She failed to hold back the tears any longer.
-0000000000000-
The open road used to hold such peace for Jace. It had always been a symbol for moving on, enjoying new beginnings. Until now, every such journey had denoted the beginning of the next chapter.
None of these merry thoughts were on his mind as he trod down the main road heading to the western border. Jace's pessimism was not helped by the realisation that his journey back to France would take him through Broceland; the lands of an inheritance he would never have, which was currently being torn apart by riots. But he had been assured the real discontent had moved northwards and the roads were clear.
By no means was Jace eager to get caught up in another mob, considering he had only narrowly escaped the last one. Yet he could not wish the peasants ill. They were sure to be put down before they really got anywhere, but he hoped they managed to burn a few estates while they could.
Be that as it may, Jace's mind was not on their doomed revolution, rather on the girl he left behind. Telling himself that leaving her and her family again was for the best. It was not making the hoof beats that took him further from Clary fall any easier.
The same words kept ringing around in his head with each of Wayfarer's strides: I love you I love you I love you.
He wished that he could wave a sword and liberate her from the new marriage she didn't want. Here he was, meekly making his way back to his master like any obedient hound. No matter it was the master Jace told himself he'd chosen.
There had always been that integral feeling that chafed against the reality of having to bow to a master at all. Whatever part of his blood that remembered it was noble, that recalled it came from a line of toppled kings, had always railed at his role of subservience. If Prince Francois had not been dead, Jace might have gone to Valentine and called in that favour to be a duke again.
But his friend, the one he had betrayed by loving Clary, was dead. Though that was not directly Jace's fault, he blamed himself. If he could not shield his friend in person then Jace should have at least protected his interests by not falling in love with his bride.
And he had fallen in love. Jace had known it for some time now, felt that pull mayhap as far back as the moment he had first laid eyes on her as a woman, in Alicante that first night. Yes, he had half been jesting when he had flirted with her, but something about her had intrigued him from the start. He had known her, despite his blunders, in some corner of his heart. He may have blundered because he knew her, knew that Clary held a crucial part of his heart and he had wanted to protect himself.
It did not matter that Jace had admitted it to his own heart anyway, for he had never told her. He cursed himself now for not having done so now. What more damage could it have done? Clary had just told him how she felt and his instinctive, yet unforgivable response had been to brush it off. Yes, without doubt he was unworthy of that affection, but Jace might still have acknowledged the depths of Clary's affections were returned.
She would be punished enough for loving him, there had been no need to exacerbate it.
Lost as he was in his own head, and caught up in his own guilt and regrets, Jace failed to take account of the world around him, in which he had acquired a shadow.
Usually, he did not mind travelling alone and light as it made for the most efficient speed. With a wallet full of mere papers, he was never disturbed by bandits. On this occasion Jace had wanted to get away as quickly as he could. The more he lingered at Valentine's court what strands of resolve he had summoned would soon unravel altogether, and he had not wanted the company of Alec after their quarrel. Jace knew that he would soon forgive his friend, and Alec him, but he also knew from experience they both needed space for their anger to cool first.
By the time the first proper town came into sight Jace was glad to see it. The banners of smoke rising from the thatched roofs blended in with the darkening steel of another sullen summer night sky, behind which neither the rising moon nor first peeping stars could be seen.
Though Jace had a certain disregard for his own safety, not even he was willing to risk the roads at night. It had been quite some time since he had last had a tavern cooked meal, and found he was quite looking forward to it. The sturdy warmth of a homely stew would do wonders in lining his stomach for the long journey ahead. Focusing on physical needs, like the snarling hunger in his stomach and the weariness of a long day weighing on his bones, provided a comfortable enough distraction from his emotional pains.
Until, upon approaching the town's main thoroughfare, he found his way blocked by two breastplate clad soldiers in the familiar maroon and black striped livery of the King of Idris. They must have taken a shorter side road to arrive here before him, clearly they knew the territory better.
The sight of them was enough for Jace's empty stomach to clench anxiously. They had no intention of letting him pass.
Jace reluctantly halted Wayfarer before them, "Can help you, gentlemen?"
The older of the two, who would soon become apparent as the dominant of the pair, was the one to answer him, "Yes, Herondale, you can help us."
He really was an ugly bastard, with a mashed face and a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken and had never properly healed. His lip seemed permanently stuck in a sneer.
Wayfarer tossed his head and chuffed fretfully, prancing uneasily on the spot. He must have been able to sense the thickening tension in the air.
"Hmm. Bit dangerous don't you think? A little Herondale princeling wandering around Broceland on his own, at a troubled time like this?"
Jace's mouth had dried up, but he made his face stay blank. "I was told that the area had quietened. I have seen no trouble thus far. I should hardly call it wandering. I am on the business of the King of France." He knew as he said it his defence was weak, crisply and firmly as he had spoken. He doubted these thugs cared for the authority of a foreign king.
Startlingly, his new enemy donned a twisted smile, which proved nastier than his sneer. "I don't think too many will miss you. I would love to ruin that lovely face, pretty boy. Knock out a few of those pearly teeth."
Perversely, Jace was glad of the taunts, for they allowed rising anger to quench his rising panic. Maybe they meant to do no more than rough him up a little.
Jace loosed his shoulders only long enough to pull off a languid shrug, "Life's not fair, is it? A true pity that we can't all be as ugly as you. Especially since that hideous face must serve as a reminder of the bashing you thoroughly deserved and allows your scintillating personality to shine through." The guard cursed colourfully. His hand shot to the dagger at his side and Jace reached for the blade at his hip-
"Enough!" The other soldier growled.
Jace slid his knife back into its sheath, revelling in the soothing scrape of metal.
Then he was addressed again, though his biting sarcasm had not endeared him any to Morgenstern Crony Number Two.
"The King of France is no longer expecting you. Since it is not safe for you to be prowling these areas at this time, we are to escort you to Alicante, Herondale."
"Alicante? To what end?"
"That is for the King to decide," The first of them spat, "All I know is I am to get you to the Gard quickly." He grinned then, as though he knew Jace's childhood nightmares were clamouring in around him. Not even the checkerboard of rotting bone that formed the few teeth the man had left could distract Jace from the terror of the Black Tower.
"Hand over the weapons. Some very important people have some very important questions to ask you."
-000000000000000-